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doing something in insurance. He molested me for the next four years; he was my first kiss.
    Over the years, I seem to have blocked out a lot of it. But I know that he never raped me, and I’m thankful for that. I know that he touched my prepubescent boobs a lot, as I’ve spent the last 22 years or so of my life keeping them from being touched by men. I couldn’t even explain why, but having my nipples touched made me physically angry.
    My husband knew what had happened to me. He wasn’t a boob man anyway, so he was pretty understanding about it, although I’m sure he found it a little odd that I usually left my bra on during sex. It’s not like they couldn’t be grazed at all, but any sort of pinching or twisting feeling would immediately cause me to want to hurt someone badly. In fact, I remember being in a bar when I was in my young 20’s and some jackass frat boy thought he was clever and reached around to grab one. I instantly whipped around and punched him in the face. Sorry, involuntary reflexes. Because of this, when I had my children, even breastfeeding was excruciating, but I was determined I wasn’t going to let the past take over my life.
    Even French kissing could get a little too weird for me sometimes. I didn’t mind it once in a while in the right setting, but I was not a kissy person and not very affectionate in general. No, I didn’t want to cuddle. No, I didn’t want to spoon with you. And may God have mercy on your soul if you breathed in my face at night. I just needed my own personal space. In my opinion, PDA (public displays of affection) should be punishable by death. I must have been a real hoot at parties. But as long as you didn’t upset my delicate sensibilities by trying to surprise hug me, kiss me, or squeeze my nips, it was all good.
     
    Over the next few weeks Matt and I talked and texted all day long. He gave me his personal email address and I made up a secret account for him under an old nickname of mine, Zoopie, so we could email each other what we didn’t want passing through the work email filters. I changed his name on my phone to Brooke in case I got a surprise text after hours.
    That first happened on a Friday night. I ran upstairs and hid in the bathroom so I could read and respond back to his Hey babe, I missed my flight so I’m stuck at the airport text. He was on his way down to Miami where he owned several rental properties in and around South Beach, and was working on getting a lot of new business. Once he was down there, he sent me pictures of some fancy company party he was attending, then every room in his favorite condo, as well as the incredible view from the balcony. It was a gorgeous place, very modern decor. It was up on the 15th floor, oceanfront. From his bedroom, it looked like the building was practically floating on the water. He told me I could come down and use it anytime, that he always let his friends borrow it, and it was no problem at all. I thought, Oh yeah, I would love to use it. But with whom?
    The weekday calls and texts were soon followed by weekend ones. We would compare schedules and sneak out of the house or time errands such that we could talk to each other from parking lots, even if just for ten minutes. When he was traveling he would call me from airports and send me sweet texts to let me know that he landed safely. I loved how important we were to each other and that we wanted to keep tabs on each other all the time. Or at least he wanted me to keep tabs on him because he was always letting me know where he was going.
    Eventually, though, the guilt became too much for me. I started to realize that this shady business couldn’t go on. I was well aware that what we were doing was wrong; there was no possible way to justify it. I just couldn’t stop. I could feel myself falling for him, hard. He was all I could think about all day, every day. Everything was so shiny and new and exciting and he was brilliant and handsome and funny and